It's Beginning to Get Me
by a.k.a.-ashley
Summary: Companion piece to 'Finding Home'. It’s been four months since Jimmy Edwards shot their lives to hell, and they’ve picked up the pieces as best as they know how, far away from the place they used to call home. LP


**It's Beginning to Get Me**

**A/N: When I wrote Finding Home I had no intention of writing it as anything other than a one-parter, but some of the people who reviewed said that they'd like to see it continued, and frankly so did I. I wanted to show what would happen to these characters after everything was said and done. So this isn't a sequel, more of a companion piece. **

She still has nightmares about that day in the school hallway, when a boy pointed a gun and shot her. Sometimes the nightmare is reliving that day, sometimes she dies, and sometimes Lucas dies. They all end the same way, cold sweats, gasping for breath, searching her body for imaginary bullet holes. It doesn't take much to wake him, and he's up with her, dragging her outside to sit on the porch and listen to the waves crash against the shore until she falls asleep on his shoulder and he carries her back into bed.

It's been four months since Jimmy Edwards shot their lives to hell, and they've picked up the pieces as best as they know how, far away from the place they used to call home. They've settled into a comfortable routine in room eight of the Sandpiper Motel, and it sometimes feels dangerously like adulthood. They have jobs, and finances, and struggles, it reminds her of the hazy memories she has of her parents, when they used to sit at the table after dinner and talk about work and money and grown-up stuff that she hadn't understood until it became her life too. So they sit at their tiny table after dinner and talk about work and money and when the day comes to a slow close they crawl into their bed and lie with limbs tangled under sheets, her hand tucked under the hem of his t-shirt. When she drifts to sleep, staring at the outline of his face, she almost forgets that they're teenagers who've run away from home.

Their bodies and faces have aged in the fallout, weathered slightly by the sun and the trauma. He's leaner now, and the sun has colored his skin golden brown. He's developed an intense dislike towards shaving, but he keeps the stubble cut close to his face because she likes the way it feels against her bare skin. And she's grown out her blond curls again because he couldn't imagine her without them for much longer. Her only physical flaw is the pale, white reminder of tragedy on her leg. The first time he'd ever absentmindedly run his fingers over the raised scar while they were fooling around under the crisp white motel sheets, she'd broken down into a sobbing mess, in between sobs wondering aloud if her getting shot was the only thing that brought them together. He spent two hours trying to calm her down and convince her that he would have found a way to be with her no matter what before she eventually cried herself to sleep, her head tucked into his lap. The scar wasn't really the problem; it was the reminder of her mortality. There are some wounds that run deeper than scar tissue, invisible to anyone other than them, wounds that won't heal into a visible white mark on skin. They might never heal at all.

When Peyton was a little girl she dreamed of being a lot of things, a princess, a doctor, a teacher. Sometimes dreams are just that. She works behind the desk of the tiny motel where she lives, answering phones and making reservations; sometimes she makes the beds when Beth's son is sick. Lucas works at the pier, renting jet skis to tourists. It might not be what they dreamed of doing, but they're almost happy, and they're together, and Peyton can't think of anything else that matters.

They have dinner at Beth's house some nights. She's only a few years older than Lucas and Peyton, but having a five-year-old son makes the gap seem wider. Her and Matthew are the closest thing they have to a family anymore. After dinner is over Lucas and Matthew usually disappear into the living rooms to play trucks. She watches them play, the little boy driving toy trucks around a miniature city carefully built with colored blocks while Lucas watches over him, and wonders if he's thinking about Keith. She sees the sad smile on his face when they walk home long after Matthew has gone to bed, and knows that he was.

He doesn't talk about Keith anymore. They share an unspoken vow to not talk about the shooting, or what life is like without his uncle and now his mom. Forgetting what happened just feels easier. They never really forget, she thinks about it everyday, the smell of the gunpowder, the deafening explosion of shattered glass and gunfire, but pretending to forget feels almost like the real thing.

A week after they'd almost had sex on a rainy night in some nameless town, they didn't stop at tender kisses on top of their motel bed. She woke from a nightmare he hadn't survived, and her frantic tears roused him from sleep. She'd crushed her lips against his to make sure he was real, and his tired body sprang to life as she pulled the clothes from his frame. They lay together afterwards; Peyton pulled close to his warm body, hearing his heart beat loudly in his chest. She held her breath for two weeks until her period came.

They're more cautious now, they know the risks of being foolish, that they're too young, too damaged to be parents. They're not in a hurry anymore, life feels slower away from Tree Hill. Kisses are slower, touches are gentler, and when she tells him that she loves him it's as if it's the only thing that she's ever believed.

They have routines that no normal teenagers would willingly have. They do laundry on Sunday nights, when the tourists have cleared out of their small town and the laundromat is left peacefully unoccupied. They sort the clothes into different shades of colors, and pump the machines full of quarters, using the leftover change to play endless games of Ms. Pac-Man on the ancient machine near the entrance. Sometimes she watches her clothes and his clothes tumble dry together in a sort of unofficial union, and the little act makes her smile to herself. On nights when they're the only inhabitants, she sits on top of the washer and wraps her legs around his waist while he peppers the exposed skin near her collar with gentle kisses pressed tightly to her flushed skin.

Tuesday nights mean they're both off work early and they wander the narrow aisles of the local market, as the fluorescent lights flicker overhead. He pushes the cart with his elbows resting on the handle, while she fills it with items from a hastily scrawled grocery list written on the back of an old receipt, sugary cereals, cheap shampoo, a box of condoms which they still feel sheepish buying months later. He looks over her shoulder as she pays with neatly folded bills that have been saved in an old coffee can, the money still smelling like the long departed beans. The lady behind the counter smiles at them and pops her gum in rapid succession. He slips a pack of gum onto the counter and they practice popping bubbles on the way home. He forms her a ring out of a silver gum wrapper and slips it on her finger, when he sees her staring back at him in bewilderment, he just shrugs his shoulders and says something that sounds like 'maybe someday' and goes back to popping his gum.

The walk home is short but it feels a little longer with arms weighed down by plastic grocery bags, he's telling her about a tourist falling off a jet-ski when they spot a familiar form sitting on the steps in front of their room. Haley turns towards them when she hears their voices and Peyton drops her bag of groceries, the contents of which spill onto the sidewalk.

The first words out of Peyton's mouth are "What are you doing here?" her tone more stunned disbelief than angry questioning.

"It's nice to see you too." Haley says softly, trying to pretend she isn't a little hurt by the fact that her friends are less than thrilled to see her after six months apart.

"How did you know where to find us?" Peyton presses again, not moving from her position, feet still firmly rooted to the ground.

"The postcard you sent a few months back, letting us know you were both safe, I looked at the postmark on the back and found this place on the internet."

"Who else knows where we are?" Lucas asks, carefully setting his bags onto the ground.

"Just Nathan, no one even knows about the postcard. I'm sorry, I didn't realize that coming here was going to be such a big deal. I should go." She stands up from her seat on the steps and brushes the dirt from her jeans. Lucas steps past a still silent Peyton and wraps his arms around Haley.

"Don't go Hales." He whispers into her hair. Peyton feels tears form at the corners of her eyes and she steps forward and wraps her arms around the pair.

Haley breathes what Peyton imagines is a sigh of relief as she holds tightly to her two best friends, she almost doesn't want to let go for fear that if she does that they'll turn to dust and slip through her fingers again. Eventually she pulls away, smiles sadly at them, and says that she's missed them.

Hours later they're all tucked away in Lucas and Peyton's tiny motel room, Haley and Peyton sit cross legged on the bed while Lucas sips from a glass of water at the table. Haley tells them about life back in Tree Hill, carefully avoiding any mention of his mom or Brooke Davis.

The friendship is strained, Peyton can tell from the awkward silences that loom over their polite conversations. When they chose to leave everything behind, they'd abandoned the only people they had left, Haley and Nathan. Two kids who'd been in the tutor center with Jimmy Edwards, held hostage by a kid with a gun. But they had stayed, gotten counseling and moved forward. A different route, a different choice.

Haley eventually asks them what Peyton knows she's driven all this way for. She wants to know if they're coming back home. Peyton locks eyes with Lucas, and she realizes that they've never directly talked about going back home, it had always been some sort of unspoken agreement that Tree Hill wasn't an option. She holds her breath waiting for his response.

"We can't go back, Haley. Too much has happened, there are too many memories. Tree Hill isn't our home anymore. This place, we get a fresh start here, and we're happy." He glances sideways at Peyton and she gives him a slight smile.

"But what about college, what about graduation? You can't give all that up."

"My priorities have shifted Hales. After the shooting and losing Keith, and almost losing Peyton, I realized that right now I just want to live my life the way that I want. We can always go back to school, but for now I'm content to live life in this crappy motel room, renting jet skis to overweight tourists, as long as I've got this girl by my side." He motions towards Peyton with a wide grin on his face, and Haley hasn't seen him smile like that since she can't really remember when.

Haley stays for two days, they show her the limited sites their small town has to offer, Lucas gets her on a jet ski and Peyton introduces her to Beth and Matthew. Lucas sleeps on the floor in a pile of extra blankets, allowing the two girls the chance to reconnect in a shared bed. It almost feels like a ridiculous sleepover they used to have, trying to stifle laughter to avoid waking Lucas, whispering recycled high school gossip. It feels normal. On Haley's last night Peyton finds herself crying into her pillow after another nightmare, and all she can think of is the fact that she doesn't want Haley to hear her. She doesn't want her to think that everything isn't okay.

Three weeks after Haley leaves they celebrate his eighteenth birthday on the beach, with a blanket spread out over the sand, a worn copy of The Odyssey she gave him as a gift, and a lopsided cake she baked in Beth's oven. They stare out at the gentle waves crashing against the shore a few yards from where they sit. She sighs softly and leans her head onto his sturdy shoulder.

"Luke, I have a confession." She says softly and somewhat hesitantly.

"You didn't really bake this cake, and now I won't have to eat it." He says with an undercurrent of hope in his voice. She pretends to be viciously offended and playfully slugs him in the arm.

"That's very funny." She leans in close and kisses him softly on his cheek, and lets her lips linger for a few brief moments. "I'm going to start seeing a counselor."

"Oh." His attempt to hide his shock is feeble at best.

"Beth went to see her after her husband walked out them, she says she really helped her with the depression."

"So you're depressed?" He asks quietly. "I thought you were happy out here, I thought you were happy with me."

"I love this life we've made for ourselves here, Luke. I love waking up next to you every morning in our crappy motel room, hell, I love doing the laundry with you." She smiles and nudges him with her shoulder. "That's why I'm going to see this counselor, I have this life that I love, but I'm not happy and I want to be. I want to move past what happened in that school, I want to stop the tears and the nightmares."

He nods his head in patient understanding, wraps his arms around her shoulders, and whispers that he loves her into the soft curls of her hair. "I'm glad you're getting help, you've had me worried for awhile. I don't know why I never said anything, I guess I just figured I could save you again, or I was just too afraid to admit that I knew I couldn't."

She sees the regret etched across his face and it makes her stomach go hollow. She laces her fingers though his. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here right now. You saved me, don't ever doubt that." She catches him with a proud half-smile across his face. "And don't think you're going to get out of eating that cake."

The sun dips below the horizon, and they poke at the chocolate cake with eighteen expertly placed birthday candles until the stars come out for the night. Then they lie back on the blanket and search for constellations.

Minutes pass slowly before she props herself up on her elbow and leans in close to him. "Luke?" She waits until he's looking at her, his eyes focused intently on hers, before she says, "I want to marry you."

- -

Months later she sits in that same spot on the beach, staring out at the lazy waves that kiss the shore. It's sunrise instead of sunset, and the bright orange glow is just beginning to peek above the horizon of never-ending blue water, She sips coffee (lots of sugar) from a paper cup, and wraps the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It's November now, and the temperature has been dropping steadily for the last few weeks, the mornings are cold but she likes the quiet and the time to think. She turned eighteen, three weeks and two days ago; she became a wife two weeks later. She sets her cup of coffee in the soft sand and twists the delicate silver band around the slender ring finger on her left hand. Eventually they'll tell their parents, but for now it's just their secret to know.

She's been seeing her counselor for a while. She makes the thirty-minute drive once a week and spends an hour in the relaxed office talking about her mom, and Ellie, and the shooting. The nightmares have mostly vanished, and she's grateful for that but she still misses the way it used to feel being in his arms as he carried her back to bed. He asks her about her sessions when she comes home, he says he wants to start going, and she's silently relieved because he needs it just as much as she does.

That day in the library, when the loss of blood started to catch up to her, she'd started rambling on about what they would come to say about the students who were witnesses to what had happened in that hallway. She didn't want to be some sort of case study in the effects of grief and tragedy on high school students, she didn't want her story in Newsweek, or People, she didn't want the picture of her being carried away from the school, blood staining the left leg of her favorite jeans, by police officers splashed on the front of The Tree Hill Times. She didn't want anyone's sympathy or pity. She just wanted to be alone, to get away from everything. Then he'd come along and saved her (again), whisking her away from everything she didn't want, and he had become her life. So she doesn't know what the psychologists would say about two kids who packed their bags and ran away from their families, she doesn't care about their textbooks answers for how someone is supposed to grieve and heal. She knows that sometimes you have to find your own way to heal, and that sometimes you can find it in someone else.


End file.
